The Lamb and the Lion
by Ellen Smithee
Summary: Lydia deals with the aftermath of the things Peter did to her in S1/S2. Spoilers through S3a. Written for a fanmix in the twreversebang on LJ . Warning: Deals with rape, rape recovery, and related issues. Lydia/Peter, Lydia/Allison


I.

_How I ache, I ache in the pit of me_  
_I awake, awake with this fear in me_  
_How it makes, makes a fool out of me_  
_With its knife, how it carves the seeds out of my heart_  
_For to plant in the soil for to feast._

Lady Lamb the Beekeeper, "Mezzanine"

oOoOo

_She's running. Feet bare as she races through the trees, barely noticing the sting of pebbles and dried pine needles. Branches and twigs snap back in her face, snaring her hair, holding her back, impeding her way. She hears nothing but the pounding of her own heart in her ears, the harsh rattle of her breath. She knows she's not alone, though. She knows something—someone—is out there. _He_ is out there. At the thought of him, another jolt of fear goes through her and she stumbles, just barely catching herself before she falls to the ground, an easy target. She pushes on, fear driving her forward, but little else._

_Just as she thinks she is home free, there is a loud crack to her right and a branch crashes to the ground. She lets out a loud shriek and jumps away to the left, and he's upon her, shoving her onto the rough ground of the forest. She struggles in vein, screaming as he laughs, his hands on her soft skin under her dress, nails, no, claws, scoring slashes into her sides, his teeth sinking into the nape of her neck. He says nothing, but the intent is clear to them both:_ Mine._ Then his fingers, hot and wet with her blood, are on her hips and—no, no, stop…_

Stop.

She awakes with a start, lashing out at the other side of the bed in panic. It's empty, of course, but her fears are not allayed. She holds her breath, listening, but only the low hiss of the air conditioner breaks the silence. She peers into the gloom, dimly lit by the streetlights outside, relaxing only when she realizes she's alone. She closes her eyes, intent on sleeping, but then her eyes fly open again, and she rolls over to switch on the lamp. Then she slowly lifts the sheet, swallowing hard as she peeks underneath. _Thank God._ No blood. No dirt on her feet. But it isn't always like this.

II.

_Oh, waterfall, do you ever think maybe it'll all be better in the morning?_

Torres, "Waterfall"

oOoOo

She stares at her face in the mirror, lost—not exactly in thought, because she's not thinking of anything right now, her brilliant mind empty for once. She barely notices the dark circles under her eyes or the blotches on her skin, every pore steeped in tiredness. She feels older than her seventeen years, ancient, the burden of knowing and feeling too much for her young body. If she doesn't think, she doesn't remember, and if she doesn't remember, it's almost like it didn't happen. No fear. No monsters. No _him_. Unbidden, the memories return, and a violent shiver shakes her frame. Then her mother calls and the spell is broken.

She starts her routine—moisturizer, foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick, blush, powder—creating the Lydia she wants to be today: vibrant, happy, _alive_ like she hasn't been in months, not since Jackson left, not since _he_… She stops that train of thought in its tracks, taking a deep, shaky breath as she focuses on the task at hand. She works diligently, pausing occasionally to admire her handiwork, smiling little smiles that don't quite reach her eyes. She's creating a mask of life, auditioning for a role that should be _hers_—she's Lydia Martin after all. And maybe if she wears the mask long enough, she'll no longer have to play-act.

When she's done, she puts down the powder brush and surveys the results in the mirror. _This will do_, she thinks, a tentative smile curving her lips, more real this time. The dreams of the night have faded in the light of the morning sun streaming through the window. At times like this, it's almost impossible not to have a little hope. Hope that she can go back to the way she was before she knew about the monsters. Before she knew she was one, too. _For this, he is also to blame._ She pushes away the thought, refusing to undo her rare success this morning. She's not ready, not yet.

III.

_Do you remember when,_  
_You had no need for lies_  
_And now your mother cries,_  
_And nothing matters much-_  
_You know, you know_  
_It's not over_

Sleigh Bells, "Leader of the Pack"

oOoOo

Always smiling, always on. Clothes always just right, not a hair out of place. Lydia Martin didn't have problems, not like the rest of these plebeians. As long as she kept up appearances, she had a semblance of control over how people perceived her, what they thought of her. With this iron clad control of her image, the battle was half won. And so she acted like nothing had changed, like she was still same ditzy, shallow girl, with a few glints of brilliance that only a few could see. There was a time when cultivating this image had been by design, to carve her niche—now it was pure survival.

But sometimes it's hard to maintain the facade. There are those who know her, only too well. Her mother, who's noticed that something is not right, asking with a voice full of concern if she has something to tell her. Lydia forces a smile, looking away before her face betrays too much. "I'm fine," she says with fault brightness. Her mother gazes at her for a long moment and then reaches over to give Lydia's hand a squeeze before she leaves. Later she hears her mother crying softly, late at night, and she knows she's to blame, but she doesn't know how to fix it. Or even how to fix herself.

With Allison, she still feels like she can be herself, like she can let the facade drop, even if only for moments at a time. Lydia hasn't told her everything, but she's told her _enough_. Allison doesn't pry or push; she instinctively knows what to do and what to say. When Lydia suddenly stops talking in the middle of an amusing anecdote and just stares into space, Allison is there to pull her back. When Lydia suddenly finds herself sobbing for no reason, Allison is there to stroke her hair. But—and this is what Lydia is truly afraid of—what if Allison finds out about the true darkness within her?

IV.

_But now you're careful, now you're good, but do I scare you, like I should?_  
_Now you're careful, now you're good, but I still scare you, and I should_  
_You've got a way with words_  
_You got away with murder_  
_But now our roles reverse and your table's turning now_

Dessa, "The Lamb"

oOoOo

"Lydia."

She freezes when she hears his voice, a rush of emotions going through her at once—hate, fear, anger, embarrassment, _shame_. She wants to run as she senses him approaching her from behind, coming closer and closer—_too_ close—but still she can't move. She can feel the heat of his body now through the thin material of her dress and she shudders in revulsion at the memory of his hands on her body, his _claws_ in her skin—but still she can't move. He chuckles, his breath tickling her ear, and her fists clench involuntarily at the mocking sound. "I see you missed me," he murmurs and then she _moves_.

"Fuck off!" she snarls. She jerks away and rounds on him, her eyes narrowed to slits. She raises her fists raise between them instinctively and he steps back, his brows raises in apparent surprise before he finds his equilibrium again. He smiles, though his face remains cold, and her hackles rise.

"Now, now," he says, sidling closer, but carefully still out of range of her fists. "Is that any way to greet an old…" He pauses and his gaze travels down her body as he licks his lips. She feels like she's going to be sick by the times his eyes return to her face, and he smirks at her reaction. "…friend?"

"Leave me alone."

"Now don't be that way, Lydia." Somehow he's breached the distance between them and he reaches to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. "I made you scream once, I can make you scream again."

Finally, something inside her snaps. She jerks her arm away and pulls herself up straight at his words as an odd sort of power seems to be building within her.

"If I ever scream for you again," she says, her eyes gleaming with menace as she takes a step towards him, "it'll be because you're _dead_."  
As he stares at her in shock, she turns on her heel and _runs_.

V.

_One more step_  
_And I'll slit your neck_  
_You'll get used to it_  
_You better just stand back_  
_I could turn on you so fast_

The Low, "Just Stand Back"

oOoOo

For days after her encounter with Peter, she feels restless and scared and hopeless, but mostly full of rage. She's angry at him and angry at herself—how could she just let him sneak up on her? How could she just let him find her alone without a soul in sight? She'd taken so many precautions; she'd been so careful never to be around him without one of the others there with her. But all for naught, apparently. She couldn't let it happen again. She couldn't let him find her alone, couldn't let him _touch_ her… She just… she _couldn't_. And it was up to her to make sure he didn't.

And so she doubles up her safeguards—makes sure she's not followed when she drives from place to place, never goes out alone without one of her friends, locks all the doors and windows when she's home all alone (not that it would make a difference to him, she realizes, but at least it gives her the feeling that she's doing _something_). And she starts to learn everything she can about Peter himself, gathering as much information on him as she can with her own considerable charm and propensity towards gossip, while bribing Danny to explore more "confidential" sources using his hacking skills. After a while, an idea starts to form.  
When Allison finds out that Lydia intends to stalk the stalker, she's appalled at first. She tries to talk her out of it, reminding her that Peter is a werewolf, fully without conscience, a psychopath who'd turned Scott and killed Kate and countless others. He could do far worse to Lydia than… "You mean, he could do far worse than _rape_ me," Lydia says, her voice rising. There. She'd named it.  
"Yeah," Allison says after a long moment, and then she seems to come to a decision. "All right. What do you want me to do?"  
Lydia smiles, an impish grin that deepens her dimples. "He'll never know what hit him…"

VI.

_You'll find your place in the world, girl_  
_All you gotta do is stand up and fight_  
_Fire with fire_

The Gossip, "Fire with Fire"

oOoOo

Allison is better at tracking him: it brings out her natural hunter instincts. Lydia is better at analyzing the information they find, looking for patterns. If she's going to conquer her fear, she has to understand it first. Together the two follow his movements, learning everything they can about his life. He has no idea that he's under so much scrutiny—Allison is luckily much too good at what she does, Lydia realizes, too smart and canny to be noticed or caught. She even managing to break into his apartment undetected one day while Lydia kept watch near Derek's loft, waiting for Peter to emerge so that she could signal Allison.

Lydia herself is not idle. As they collect information to determine what kind of man—or beast—Peter is, she's searching through the tomes of the Argents' library, looking for anything that could help her, protect her. _Maybe even avenge me_, she thinks, she hopes, but she doesn't say the words out loud to Allison. She has a feeling her friend would no longer be so willing to help or be so determined to protect Lydia if she knew about the darkness in Lydia's soul that seems to grow the more she undertakes to help herself. And as much as Lydia seeks to protect herself, she must protect Allison as well.

One day, as she's reading a particularly interesting passage in an old grimoire, a sound near the doorway of the study startles her. She looks up to see Allison leaning against the door with an inscrutable look on her face as she runs the her fingertip over the blade of a katana. Lydia winces as Allison nicks herself, but Allison just pops her bloody thumb into her mouth, sucking it off briefly before plucking it out again.

"Let's kill him," she says. "I can do it. I'm sure of it. My… grandfather told me how."

_Yes_. But no, not like this.

Lydia holds up the book. "I might know something better."

VII.

_You should know better than to fuck with me_

Robyn feat. Snoop Dog, "U should know better"

oOoOo

At the end, Lydia goes to Ms. Morell. She has a sneaking suspicion that the French teacher/guidance counselor will have few qualms about advising her on how to… handle Peter, and she wants to keep Allison as free of guilt as possible. She isn't sure what she thinks of Allison offering to kill Peter for her, even having spoken to her estranged grandfather to find out how. Lydia can't remember the last time someone thought she was important for just being herself (Jackson never seemed to think so, at any rate), not some prize or an annoyance or an object, but Allison thinks she's important. Enough to kill for her.

Ms. Morell translates the Middle French in the grimoire, which turns out to be a list of ingredients for a spell.

"How am I supposed to cast a spell," Lydia says. "I'm not an emissary."

Ms. Morell shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. The power lies within you. You just have to want it enough."

Lydia's face grows thoughtful as she considers Ms. Morell's words. Does she really want it? Does she want to get Peter out of her life and those of her friends before he hurts anyone else?

_More than anything._

She leans forward, her eyes alight with excitement, and Ms. Morell smiles enigmatically.

"Tell me what to do."

As with everything else, it comes down to the nemeton. The cave under the old tree would have been perfect had it not been destroyed, but also too obvious if they want to trap Peter. In a clearing a short distance just out of sight of the tree itself, they find the tree root, just where Ms. Morell said they would.

"This is the place," Lydia whispers, looking around in wonder. She feels no fear, only anticipation. The power of the ancient spot is palpable evoking an answering echo within herself. Allison takes her hand. Lydia glances down at her own short, stubby fingers in Allison's slender ones and she shivers.

VIII.

_Off with your head. Dance, dance, dance 'til you're dead_

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "Heads Will Roll"

oOoOo

Lydia sits alone on a fallen tree, her short legs swinging just off the ground. She's nervous, only too aware of what Peter could do to her if he senses a trap, but she's come to far to stop now. She can still sense the power of the nemeton root, pulsing faintly, but steady beneath her feet. It is enough to lull her into inattention, and she lets out a soft gasp of surprise when she realizes she's not alone. Peter is already there, watching her from the other side of the clearing.

"S-sorry," she stammers. "I didn't hear you coming."

"Werewolf. It's a… knack."

He takes a few graceful steps forward, tilting her head in a manner reminiscent of a dog. If Scott or Derek had done it, she might have found it endearing, but with Peter, it just serves to remind her that he's _not human_. He's a monster.

The thought gives her unexpected courage, and she crosses her legs, her lips curving in a seductive smile.

"I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to meet me here." She casts her eyes downward. She can see his feet as he approaches.

"The thought had occurred to me," Peter says, with a deceptive lightness. "Especially since you were less… friendly the last time we met."

Lydia groaned and pressed one of her hands to her face. "I know. And I'm sorry. Maybe… we can start over."

She peeks at him through her splayed fingers and catches the look of triumph that passes over his face.

"Maybe."

He takes one last step, and she lets out a loud, long banshee scream and then blows the mixture of wolfsbane and other herbs she's been clutching into his face. He cries out in rage and pain, stumbling backwards in the center of the clearing. She jumps from the branch, chanting the Old French words Ms. Morell had taught her. His body jerks in an odd sort of dance and he seems incognizant of the nemeton root, shooting up into the air like a vengeful arm. The root wraps around his neck and starts to squeeze and _squeeze_ and then she shrieks as his head pops off his head, shooting into the air, blood spraying all over the ground. Allison runs into the clearing from her hiding place in the trees, her crossbow drawn, her eyes widening as she sees the carnage that Lydia has wrought.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Lydia starts to speak, but at that moment, the head drops between them. The root then wraps around the body and pulls it down under the grown, never to be seen again.

"Wow," Allison whispers.

IX.

_We'll have a great funeral (when you die)_

Free Electric State, "We'll Have a Great Funeral (When You Die)"

oOoOo

Derek files a missing persons report on Peter a week later, and no one seems in much of a hurry to find him. Sheriff Stilinski says he probably just left town, but more than a few hope that he's come to a bad end. Derek seems worried, but mainly relieved, alleviating the last of Lydia's doubts and regrets. _What's done is done_, she thinks and she tries to put it out of her mind, determined to enjoy her newfound freedom.

Then one spring day, months after Peter's "disappearance," Allison suggests they return to the clearing—"for closure," she says. Lydia agrees, and they set out on their way through the woods.

"Great day for a funeral," she murmurs, and Allison snorts in dark amusement. When they reach the clearing, however, they stop short in astonishment. There, sprouting from the nemeton root, was a small green sapling. It seemed their "sacrifice" had taken root, in more ways than one.

"Wow," Lydia breathes, and then Allison is kissing her, her lips soft and her mouth hard against Lydia's. The blissful moment came to an abrupt as Allison pulls away.

"Sorry," she says, looking like she's about to bolt. "I didn't mean… oh, crap…"

"Oh, shush." Lydia closes the distance between them, resuming the kiss.

And now the whole world is wide open to her.


End file.
